


If I'm To Drown In The Deep Sea That Parts Us

by Ninyaaaaaaah



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Blood, Canon Era, Ghost John Laurens, I mean... not really but kind of?, Lams - Freeform, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Suicide mention, WTF even is this honestly, i don't know what this is, i guess?, posting two things in one night because I have no control whuddup, rape mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 17:52:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11833932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ninyaaaaaaah/pseuds/Ninyaaaaaaah
Summary: What.Just... what.





	If I'm To Drown In The Deep Sea That Parts Us

He had thought it would taste sweet, like surrender. Like surrender, like honey, like giving in to a dark eyed man’s plush mouth.

He had courted it like a lover. Teased it. Taunted it. Thought constantly of forcing himself on it. Like a siege. Like a rape. With a noose, with a knife, with a gun.

He was coaxed back time and again. By words. By love. By dark eyes under the light of the moon and a million ways to say I love you without saying I love you. A touch of finger tips to wrist. Lips to forehead. Ink splatters on parchment. Cover under fire. A sigh and a whisper of blankets. A sinking in. A holding fast. Fingers finding homes in hip bones. The look in dark eyes over the new green of spring, over the green gold of summer, over the gold red of autumn. The look in dark eyes stretching out day after week after month after year. Into the next. Into night and winter and forever.

A crushing. A breaking. A bruising. A press of lips on lips, tongues like silk and heat and I want you so much.

Fingers in hair. Fingers in hip bones. Fingers in mouths. Fingers in hearts. Always back to fingers finding homes in hip bones. 

A trying to hold a want that heavy in dirt stained, shaking hands. Freckled hands. Rebellious fingered hands. Unworthy hands.

A not enough. A not enough. A not enough.

A trying anyways to split himself into enough pieces to make himself big enough to be enough.

Instead it felt like heat, it felt like flames, it felt like glory, it felt like bursting apart into ten thousand tiny shards.

Instead it tasted like an ending. Bitter like ash and metal. Like blood. Like envy. Like rain on a copper roof. Like the cold barrel of a gun.

Then it was just nothing.

It was just lightness and air and a not having of bones.

Then he was just nothing.

Just lightness and air and a not having of bones.

He floated in silence. No lungs to pump air. No heart to beat. No rush of blood through veins.

-

_John…_

_John…_

_John Laurens…_

His name like a beacon, like a prayer, like a wet breath of wind off the ocean. Like a candle flame, like wet red wax splashing on a desk. Like familiar finger tips walking down his spine.

Grief, sharp and bright and shaped like his name. Full of anger like teeth. Full of salt tears that sting. Full with a shaking, a bone deep ache, a sense of loss.

He takes the fine silver thread of it in between the finger tips he no longer has, and he follows it.

Down and down and down and down.

And he watches a man write a letter. He watches a candle flicker. He watches rain drops dribble down a window pane. 

He watches a tear splash on parchement and he watches a shaking hand crush a quill until it breaks and he watches shoulders slump under the weight of a thousand things not said, and now all of these things just look like defeat. 

He follows the letter.

He follows it into the rain with its crisp, cream edges, with its red wax seal. 

He follows it to the post and he follows it down muddy roads, staccato beat of hooves on packed earth, up and up and North and North and on and on. 

He watches the dark haired woman pick it up and turn it over in her fine hands, her long fingered hands, her pale ivory hands. Her hands that aren’t rebellious, that get to touch and have and hold without shaking and fear of breaking.

John had rebellious hands. 

He misses them now. Hands that were suited to anger, suited to fire and fight and the sulfur taste of gunpowder residue. Hands that wanted to make colour, hands that wanted to love a sharp mouthed sharp toothed sharp edged man. Fingers that came back to the home they’d forged in hip bones, again again again again.

He follows her and he wishes for her hands and he hates her hands and he wants to lick the traces of his sweat from her fine bones. 

He watches her open the letter with trembling hands, those perfect hands, obedient hands, good hands. He watches her read it out loud, her sweet voice pronouncing him dead, her sweet voice a sparking in his chest at the sound of his name in the air. 

And then he watches him. 

He watches him frozen, he watches him unmoving, he watches his heart stop beating in his chest and his blood turn to ice water in his veins and the hollows in his hips forever stained with the invisible bruises left by John’s rebellious fingers fill in with sand. 

He watches the small, keening sound that reaches right into his non-existent heart as it leaves that perfect throat, perfect mouth, perfect lips.

It tastes like heat it tastes like loss it tastes like rage. 

Grief deep and sharp edged and shaped like his name again.

So he goes closer and he wishes he still had his rebellious gunpowder hands, he wishes his fingers could still dig into those hip bones, that all the weight of him hadn’t left his body and settled there in the hollows he used to call home. He gets closer and he would reach out and touch but he doesn’t have hands, and he would reach out and lick the salt trail of a tear from his cheek with a pointed tongue but he can’t, and he would reach out and he would breathe love into all the hollow places that are now full with the weight of him, but he can’t.

So he just stays and he watches and his not fingers itch, rebellious still. 

It feels like waiting. Like waiting, like held breath, like a quill touched to paper and bleeding ink. 

It sounds like silence. Like silence, like one beating heart where there should be two, like a ticking clock. 

It sounds like a jagged edged breath being ripped out of lungs, and it looks like a shaking of shoulders and a hand over a face, over those dark eyes that John will never see again, and it smells like salt water, metal, and ink, and it feels like an ending, a severing, a breaking apart, a floating away…

But it tastes like surrender. Like surrender, like honey, like the soft skin of a wrist and a million ways to say I love you without saying I love you.

**Author's Note:**

> ****I tried really hard to find some information on exact methods of mail transport in this timeline but couldn't find anything. So... sorry. It might not be accurate. 
> 
> ****Why did I write this.
> 
> ****Title is from "If I'm To Die" by Keaton Henson
> 
> ****Comments make the world go round!
> 
> ****Come visit me on tumblr @ninyaaaaaaah
> 
> ****Is this note longer than the fic yet?
> 
> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> xo


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